I wrote this for a contest at our school. It won an award, I think.
All I can think is, 'Wow, this is actually happening to me.' This is the kind of thing you hear about happening to some girl in New York; something you read about online.
This only happens to fake people, where it doesn't touch you.
Yet, my mother is leaning away from me like I've got a disease and her face is a mask of hate and disgust and, I guess I'm a fake person now.
"You're what?" She spits out the question and I kind of start hating her a little for making me repeat this.
"I'm...I'm gay." I say just barely above a whisper and a tear drips from my eye before I can catch it and I wipe it away quickly before she realizes she's won.
She's broken me with the look on her face and the pieces are landing between us on my bed forming a bulletproof window.
"It's not your fault." I blurt out, desperate for something; anything to melt this ice that's enveloping my brain.
Instead, the statement hardens it.
"What?" Her eyes narrow even more.
"It's no one's fau-" I try to start; I try to fix this.
"Of course it's not my fault." She says, her voice rising in pitch, "How dare you try to blame this," she throws her hand towards me but not at me in a way that made my heart feel like she'd hit me, "on me." She stood up from her place on my bed, obsessively smoothing the wrinkles she'd made. "If this is anyone's fault," she made her way out of my room, "it's yours."
I try to say something, but all I can think through this fog of disbelief, is, 'Wow. So this is what it feels like to be fake; where no one can be touched by me.'
I just stare at the empty doorway after she leaves, and tears roll unbidden down my cheeks. I hear the front door slam, and then the soft purr of the Mercedes floats up to my room. My mother peels out of the driveway and off to who knows where.
The sounds fade away, and I am pulled from my lack of motion by the silence.
I look around my room. Nothing's broken; nothing's out of place, despite the meltdown that had just occurred. My eyes fell upon the OUT magazine splayed across the navy blue area rug, and I have the sudden urge to rip it to pieces; make it never have existed. I get up and pluck it from the floor and just hold it; the anger boiling up inside me to the point that I just inwardly snap.
I drop the magazine and I can't really feel anything anymore. Just a compelling need to make sure that I don't feel ever again. My mind clicks through the possibilities: Drugs or wrists or gun or roof?
And then it passes.
The pieces inside me realign and slip themselves back into place with hairline fractures that I'm not entirely sure can be fixed.
I look down and see that Id dropped the magazine, so I pick it up and smooth the crease on the cover and I walk over and place it into the bottommost drawer of my desk; not really wanting to throw it away, but not wanting to see it, either.
I stand for a minute or two, and decide to sit down due to the quaking in my knees and the feeling as though I might faint.
It is utterly quiet, and the gunshot of betrayal ricochets throughout my heart.